a drifter’s drafts adrift

This was submitted to Untamed Pens, our creative writing workshop. 

The first thing you do is pray. But brush your teeth before that, so God doesn’t suffocate by your morning breath.

Drink water before eating your breakfast. Two glasses. Don’t eat white bread. No butter; that’s pure fat. No cheese; it’s all reprocessed and is nothing like real cheese. No strawberry jam; it will give you skin rash. No starchy cereal. No coffee; that’s just ground tar mixed with water.

This is your mother sipping her tea. That’s your sister who is bound to become a whore, what with all the perfume and make up she wears and the gradual shrinking of her skirt with each passing day.
That’s your school. This is the kid who always sits in the front, who answers all the questions and always gets all the praise. Look at how he kisses his father’s cheek before he leaves the car. He carries a lunch-box.
This is your teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh. Here he is, parking his car that looks exactly like Dad’s car, except that it has lots of tissues thrown all over, and smells like birthmarks on thighs. 
Take your seat. This is the teacher who flunked your older brother seven years ago. You wonder if he can make the connection between you and him. You hope that he doesn’t. Avoid looking him in the eye.
Don’t eat from the canteen in recess. Don’t eat at all if you can help it, you’re as fat as a baby elephant as it is. Hang out with the nice kids. Stay away from the cool ones; you’re not as cool, don’t try to compete. Stay away from the nerds, they do weird things like talk about homework and share their lunch-box food. Stay with the nice ones but don’t cling too much, so they won’t realize that you actually don’t fit in. Talk to them about anything, but don’t tell jokes because your jokes are not funny. Don’t talk to them about your sister who is bound to become a whore what with all the perfume and make up she wears and the gradual shrinking of her skirt with each passing day. Nor about the teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh, nor about how his car looks like Dad’s car, except that it has lots of tissues thrown all over and smells like birthmarks on thighs. Nor about the time Mom put all Dad’s clothes in the kitchen oven and your kitchen almost caught fire.
When it’s prayer time and your teacher takes your whole class to the little mosque that smells like socks and sweat, try to stay in the bathroom so you won’t be embarrassed by how you pray different than they do. If you can’t escape, try to imitate the boys next to you. Do what they do exactly. And don’t wonder why you pray differently at home.
In P. E. class, avoid your teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh with the car that looks like Dad’s by pretending to be indulged in the soccer game your colleagues play, even though you look like an idiot running in the field around the ball, what with your looking like a baby elephant and all. And pray that he doesn’t call your name and asks to go see him in his office. But you didn’t pray in the mosque that smells like socks and sweat, because you pray differently and this could be God’s way of punishing you for suffocating him by your morning breath when you prayed in the morning.
Brush your teeth.
Pray on time.
Stay away from starchy food and strawberries.
Don’t talk about your sister who is bound to be a whore. Nor about your mother smoking cigarettes in the kitchen and putting all your Dad’s clothes in the oven. Nor about the teacher nor about his car.
Don’t talk at all in fact. Don’ talk at all.